Watch out, you might get what you're after; Cool babies, strange but not a stranger

I'm not kidding when I say that compared to a C-section, vaginal birth is like a dance party.

And please forgive me if birth stories are not your cup of tea. I know I was never interested in them until I had a kid. And now I'm all, "So your mucal plug was the size of a golf ball??"

Honest to God, a couple people told me that. I never saw mine. No clue.

Also, this is very long. Because I want to record it all for myself, for India. You won't  hurt my feelings if you decide to wait and read another day, or just skip to the end where, you know (spoiler alert!), the baby comes out.

So.

I trudged home from work Wednesday the 18th, exhausted, crabby, and having spent the day feeling like I was being stabbed in the vagina from the inside. I took Tylenol before I went to sleep because I was all, fuck the stabbity stabbing. I need some sleep.

Water Breaks and Contractions Hurt Like Holy Hell
And then at 2 am I felt this little twinge. And then I started to leak. But not gush, like in the movies. I had time to wake Nick up and be all, "I think my water broke. It's like I'm peeing but I'm not peeing."

Naturally, I dragged him into the bathroom so I could demonstrate the not-peeing on the toilet. It just kept going and going.

I called my doula, who confirmed that it did indeed sound like my water bag had broken, and told me to call the midwife and then to get some sleep. I called the midwife, who said it sounded like there was meconium in the fluid, but not to worry, and to come to the hospital at 6 am. And sleep in the meantime.

Which was when the contractions started. They were much like my midwife had demonstrated. Except like 50 times more painful.

My doula had said that they'd start, and they'd be far apart, and not to pay attention to the clock. Approach each contraction as an opportunity to move the baby down. And then rest in between.

Basically, I was prepared to rest, watch a movie, read, what-have-you in between contractions.

Except that these motherfuckers started 3-5 minutes apart (yes, I'm a clock watcher) and they hurt so much that I was on my hands and knees on the bed, squatting on the side of the bed, leaning over and clutching the bed...

I was all, "Breathe, breathe, this is an opportunity..."

I finally texted my doula all, "These hurt like holy hell and there's no way I can do this for 24 hours." At which point she called and while we were chatting she was all, "Hmm. Sounds like it's going a bit faster than anticipated."

Honestly, I would recommend her to anyone. She's very even and calm and soothing, and she handles both Nick and me and our varied styles extremely well.

And It Doesn't Hurt Less Just Because You're at the Hospital, Until...
We got to the hospital a little after 6 am. The midwife (a very sweet, gentle one - not the hardcore one who I respect but fear) checked my cervix around 7 and I was not at all dilated. She pushed, and she said most people's will open if that happens. Me? Zero.

They had both India and me hooked up to monitors, and she was doing fine and I was contracting like all hell and yet no dilation.

This continued for another couple hours. The nurse was wonderful, doula, and Nick were all there the whole time and were wonderful. They would rub my back, breathe with me, remind me to relax my shoulders, breathe into it, etc.

And then, about 9, the anesthesiologist came in, I think as a routine visit in case I wound up needing anesthesia. She asked me what meds I was taking, allergies, etc. And then she said, "If you want an epidural, you just need to ask. There's no shame in it."

At which point I burst into tears and said, "YES PLEASE I WANT ONE RIGHT NOW I CANNOT DO THIS IT HURTS IT HURTS PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE CAN I HAVE ONE RIGHT NOW."

Nick reminded me that I'd worked so hard for all these months and was I sure? And since he wasn't within kicking range all I could say was "Please shut up, Nick."

The doula had suggested that I ask for the attending to perform the procedure, so I did. The resident left to get him, and the nurse said, "Actually, she is very good."

I looked at Nick and said, "GO GET HER BACK!" and, good man that he is, he sprinted.

Accio anesthesiologist!

Epidurals Are Magic And Then I Slept

As I dozed off (sleep! after days and days! finally!) Nick and the midwife had a little meeting. She was going to consult with the head of OB. Nick called family to tell them it looked like I'd be having another C-section.

My body kept contracting. India kept doing well. And my cervix, it turns out, decided to dilate. They would occasionally reposition me to help the baby work her way downward.

Somewhere around noon, as they were shifting me, they saw the bloody show. 

And when the midwife came back in to check, she said, "I can't really feel..." I was sure she was going to say "any dilation" but instead she said, "much cervix. You're almost fully dilated."

Which made me burst into tears. My body works like it's supposed to after all. And I've spent the last three years thinking I was totally defective. Fuck you very much, OB.

So they said to hang out until I felt a tremendous urge to poop. Then I'd start pushing. This took another hour or so. I was worried I wouldn't recognize it.

Hahahaha.

And Then With Much Encouragement, Behold, I Squoze a Baby Out of My Vagina
Suddenly I was all, "Oh! I feel it!" This was right about 3 pm.

And then they all sprung into action. I was all worried I would poop. They told me I probably wouldn't but not to worry. If I did, I wouldn't know.

Oh, I did. And I knew.

Somehow, I had always envisioned women depositing a large turd on the table. I don't know why. But then my friend Jane said her husband said it was like a Play-Doh factory, if you remember extruding your Play Doh.

Nick started making fun of me, at which point they directed him up by my head. But then he settled down, and they assigned him leg holding duty. First they had me on my side. They'd have me take a breath and let it out, then take a breath and push for 10. The nurse was counting.

And then they asked if I'd like to try being on my back. Neither of these would have seemed like optimal pushing positions prior to this little exercise. But you have these contractions and then you just, well, push.

So there we all were: the midwife, the doula, the husband, the nurse, and me. All up close and personal. They were doing warm compresses, they were supporting my perineum, they were discreetly wiping away the poop. That just kept coming and coming and coming.

I know it did. Nick unnecessarily confirmed this fact.

You know how when people tell you you're doing a good job, it just makes you want to try harder? This is what was going on. They were complimenting my pushing abilities. Clearly Lisa, you are very fit and have great abs! Such fantastic pushing!

(Fortunately nobody was like, clearly you have a lot of huge poops!)

And then after a while her head was almost out, and my vagina cheerleading squad got all excited, and they were all, a few more pushes! and then it was out...and the midwife asked Nick if he'd like to catch the baby...

Personally, I was about to suggest that they leave it to a professional, but he was really excited about it.

So Nick caught the baby. And they put her on my belly, all gunky and red and what the hell just happened? She was there. Right there. My baby!

They left the cord connected until it turned white, so she could get all the blood, oxygen, whatever else from it. And then they offered for Nick to cut it, which he was also all thrilled about. They put her up to nurse.

I'm telling you, although my doula contends that I could have, and I just made a choice - the right choice for me - I don't believe I could've done it without the epidural. I have never, seriously never, been in pain like that.

But I will also say that as soon as it was over, I genuinely felt the urge to be all yee-haw yippeee naked backflips down the hallway! when it was over. I mean, if I had been able to move my legs.

Honestly and truly one of the best days of my entire life.

Secrets, frozen eggs, chippies, and could you honestly not sleep with James Bond if you had the chance?

OK, so, I hadn’t thought about my definition of a secret until the other night.

And once I told him about it, Nick thought of it as a secret kept. Whereas I thought, since I hadn’t made the other decision – which would definitely have been a secret – that it wasn’t a secret. Just something I hadn’t shared.

Which is entirely different, I think. Kind of like if you have the opportunity to cheat on your partner, but you choose not to. Cheating and not telling would mean you have a secret.

Whereas you probably wouldn’t come home and say, “I didn’t sleep with someone else today.”

Unless it was oh, Daniel Craig. Then I think I would definitely come home and say that while I’d had the opportunity to have sex with James Bond, I didn’t, and THAT’S HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU. YOU’RE WELCOME.

Except, sweet Jesus, how would you NOT sleep with Daniel Craig? So then you'd have to keep that secret to your grave. Except I'm a terrible secret keeper, so I'd just have to hope my marriage survived it.

Note to self: create one of those five celebrities you get a free pass with kind of list. Which is actually hilarious, because I think Barney Frank is the only famous person I've seen in years.

But anyway. Not having slept with the person isn’t a secret. You agree?

And this is nothing as juicy as all that.

Basically, here’s the deal. We were having this big contentious conversation the other night and I said, “There’s something I haven’t told you.” (Which is so not the same as a secret.) So he said, “Yeah, well, there’s something I haven’t told you, either.”

He made me go first.

Back when we were doing the IVF that led to my present state, Nick came with me when they sucked the eggs out. He kind of had to be there, really. Remember the whole Whorientals business? Plus the fact that I was seriously doped up.

But when they stuck them back in, I walked myself down there, and then cabbed home. It was kind of surreal. The doctor and I talked about Mardi Gras while he was injecting my potential future progeny into my uterus.

Nick really had no role that day. I mean, aside from potential moral support. Which is of course nice but not absolutely critical.

So.

So when I was sitting under an electric blanket in the reclining chair drinking water to the point where they were satisfied that my bladder would be full enough to push my uterus into optimal position, they handed me some forms to fill out.

One of which was to tell them whether or not to freeze any leftover embryos. And who got what rights. I can’t remember exactly, but you chose the rights for each partner (basically: donate, use, discard). You checked different options, depending on the person.

Naturally, I gave myself free reign to do whatever I wanted, without a second thought.

And then, then I got to Nick. And paused. I know, I know, this sounds terrible. How could I even hesitate, right?

Except, think about it. If he’s making these decisions, it’s because I’m dead and he’s married some dreadful chippie. And I was all, I am so NOT giving Nick and the chippie full reign to use my eggs! HE just had to wank into a cup. I had to do days of shots in the stomach and egg-sucking-outing and all the rest of it.

And suddenly, there he was, bringing some overly made up tramp into our home, acting all like he could just walk over to the freezer all breezy and pull out those embryos and use them anytime he wanted? No sirree!

I sat in that warm chair and stewed about the chippie for a couple minutes. And then I remembered that chippies are, by definition, young, and she wouldn’t need my eggs.

Plus then, then I thought, but what if he marries someone totally age appropriate? Someone like me, against whom time and ovaries are working? She might be a perfectly nice person, someone I’d like, a good mother for Jordan. And they could totally use these expensive, hard-squozen embryos.

So I gave him every right to them.

See how it wasn’t a secret?

Also, he was totally lying. He didn’t even have a secret/non-secret.

Hopes and resolutions

HOPES

Personal: A Healthy Baby
I haven't been told any stillborn stories lately, and I've managed to keep myself off the Internet in that regard, and so I've calmed down on the fretting. I know I'm lucky to be pregnant, particularly after the first IVF.

On a related note: that month, while waiting to see, people told me so many friend- or friend-of-a-friend stories about multiple (like, up to 12) failed IVF attempts. It was kind of like the stillborn thing. Then they'd say, "Oh! But I'm sure it will work out for YOU!"

And we'd look at each other awkwardly. And then it did.

I know, I know, how fortunate we are. And please god, let the rest of the pregnancy go well.

Global: World Peace
I don't expect it really ever, but if you don't hope for it, it definitely won't happen, you know?

Which of course makes it totally unlike true love and getting pregnant, where if you stop thinking about it and stop trying, it will just happen for you. (Ohh, hahaha! I just cracked myself up. It's actually shocking that I never facepunched anyone who said those things to me along the way.)

DC: The End of the Fucking Construction on 18th Street, Already
Who do you have to blow around here to get the construction crew to speed up their glacial pace and get to the top of goddamn 18th Street? Actually, forget I said that. I'm sure someone, and, uh, ew. I'm in favor of supporting our troops, but I'm not that into public service.

But I don't believe they're in any hurry, and I do believe someone is profiting, and it being DC, I'm sure that there's someone high up with an open palm. I mean, we tip the trash collectors quarterly. Yes, we feed the system, but trash pickup turns out to be critical. And people like to be appreciated for their work.

RESOLUTIONS

Write and send Thank You cards. I have such good intentions. I am grateful. And yet, I suck at sending the cards. I owe years' worth of thanks. This year, I am going to write and send them. Instead of just feeling guilty about not doing so.

Be more patient. I'm giving myself until mid-year to start this one, though. Because with pregnancy and newborn, really, all bets are off.

Revamp LG. I should finally grow up, blog-wise, don't you think?

Potty train our son. This one I dread. But I want him out of diapers before the next poo-factory arrives. Plus, his man-poops now almost make me puke, even when I don't stick my head in the trash can. And we need his changing table; I'm not buying another one.

Get back in shape post-baby. Also to begin mid-year.

WRITE WRITE WRITE. No explanation needed.

And, because this is my favorite one ever and easy to succeed at, I am going to make it a resolution every year: Eat more bacon.

I hope your 2011 ends happily! Huge New Year's hugs to all of you!

Although for all I know, racist porn may have gotten us where we are today

So you know I did the IVF.

For me that entailed a bunch of shots and having my blood taken 85 million times and then having my eggs sucked out and then having a couple of them put back in. When they suck out your eggs, they give you an IV with some very nice drugs, I have to say.

When they stick them back in, they're so itty bitty that the doctor has to take his syringe thingy into the lab and have them look in a microscope and tell him whether he got them out or not. So he did, and they determined that they were, in fact, set up in their new home, and they drew a little line on the sonogram screen to show where they were, and sent me on my way.

They were always all, "Good job!" Which of course is exactly the kind of thing you want to hear, even though really, you have absolutely no control over what's going on.

Anyway.

Nick's piece of the process entailed giving me a bunch of shots, being incredibly supportive of me ALL THE TIME GODDAMMIT and then leaving his, uh, contribution on the day of the egg-suck-out-ing.

He said they really need to improve their customer service towards men. They make you feel cheap and dirty. You walk in and they don't really meet your eyes and they hand you a cup and they're all "There's the bathroom."

He said he really wanted to ask them if he could leave the door open, and if they'd mind watching.

Me, I see no reason to joke in these circumstances. If you get a humorless nurse who thinks you're an icky icky creep, I'm the one who is going to have to see her multiple times a week. And even if you don't. For God's sake, man.

So then, without saying anything idiotic to the nurses, cup in hand, you head into the bathroom. He said there's a variety of porn to appeal to a variety of taste. The one he mentioned as example was called Whorientals.

Seriously.

I didn't ask for details, because I just don't want to know.

Also. Whorientals? Who picks these?

How I realized I totally wasted my youth. Brought to you by the letters I, V, and F.

So in May, when it was clear that we were not getting pregnant through our own efforts or mild interventions, we realized we needed to turn to what we had been considering the nuclear option.

Although in retrospect, except for the heart-stopping expense, the whole process wasn't that terrible. Although I do wish I'd taken a picture of my stomach after all the shots.

I'm not going to say that it looked like the Ho Chi Minh trail, which is how Nick likes to describe some of DC's worst roads, because though I like the simile, it would be a gross exaggeration. Mostly it looked like I'd been beaten by teeny tiny angry little fists.

But honestly, the injectable drugs were so much easier in terms of side effects than the Clomid I'd been taking. Those pills turned me into a rabid little hate machine.

I'm not exaggerating. I told Nick I hated him in front of one of our friends. And I meant it. I gnashed my teeth all night long. I woke up loathing my husband just for breathing. I spent my days wanting to kick puppies and shove pregnant women.

Not so good.

So we met with our doctor who was basically all, yah, at almost 42 you have like 37 seconds of fertility left, and let's get going.

Right. So.

My insurance, it covers nothing in terms of fertility procedures or medication.

And thus, when I got the call from the pharmacy telling me that my grand total for medication was going to be $5,300, I nearly passed out, right there on 17th Street. I called my nurse. She found coupons. She called alternate pharmacies.

We got the total down to $4,000. For 10 days of medication. My math is not great, but it was pretty easy to work this out to $400 per day.

It got me thinking.

I don't know what kind of quality you'd be talking, but it seems to me that if you're going to be sticking drugs into your body, you could probably have a really good time on $400 a day. I'm not saying you could have this major hookers and blow binge, but something along those lines.

Don't you think?

And then, then I started being all, why the fuck didn't I have a drug problem in my early 20s? Your 20s are the time to do it! Look at all these things I'm never going to do now: Threesomes! Sleeping around! Drug experimentation!

I totally fucking wasted my youth with that first-born-rule-follower bullshit.